The Marshal Pt 01

ONE

The tall, muscular man stepped off the United Airlines 777-200 and walked down the gangway to the terminal. After the attacks on the World Trade Center, airport security had been tightened, so he didn't have to deal with families hugging each other and clogging the gangway exit, but that was the only positive thing to come from the changes. As far as he was concerned, everything about flying sucked, and he felt that way even though he didn't have to deal with security lines like most people did. Walking quickly, he carved his way through the crowd to baggage claim where his ride should be waiting for him.

As he passed the security line for passengers entering the terminal, he saw an overweight man sitting in an airline provided wheelchair. The seated man was wearing the classic, if unofficial, U.S. Marshal uniform consisting of a dark blue polo with a U.S. Marshal Service badge stitched in gold on the left chest and tan pants. The younger marshal was wearing the same. The seated man's hair was thinning and greying at the temples, making him appear at least twenty years older than the man who'd exited the airplane's own thirty-one years. The older marshal was probably approaching retirement, and given the man's general lack of physical prowess, he was probably one of those old dogs who were past their prime but couldn't seem to hand over their badge. Marshals like him were relegated to light duty jobs, like picking up visitors at airports and evidence collection, to free up younger marshals for the more physically demanding tasks. Wheelchair guy was holding a piece of paper against his chest as a sign with

Robert Cogburn

written in thick, black, hand drawn lines.

The seated man brightened as the big man approached. Rob could tell the man's eyes had seen a lot over the years. Many of the older marshals he knew had that same look in their eyes. The man struggled out of the chair, a brace on his right knee making his rise clumsy.

"Welcome to L.A., Marshal Cogburn," the man drawled in his best John Wayne imitation. "Do they call you Rooster?"

Rob mentally rolled his eyes at the imitation and question. His last name, Cogburn, wasn't unusual or funny... until he became a United States Deputy Marshal. The moment he became

Marshal

Cogburn everyone thought they were the first to make the connection between his name and to the two True Grit movies, starring John Wayne in the 1969 original and Jeff Bridges in the 2010 remake. That's when he'd been tagged with the nickname Rooster by his fellow marshals, and the wise cracks had started. He'd tried to ignore the nickname, but the more he fought against it, the tighter it stuck, until he'd finally given in and accepted the inevitable. In his eight years of service, he'd heard every Rooster Cogburn, John Wayne, and Jeff Bridges imitation and joke there was. That didn't mean he spread the nickname around, however, and preferred to go by Rob in most situations, reserving his other name for use by those he worked with every day.

Rob extended his hand but ignored the question. "Thank you. Rob Cogburn."

"George Bruck," the man said, taking his fellow marshal's hand. He might be hobbled by a brace, but his grip was firm. "Ready to go get this chick?"

"Yes. We're booked on the 12:45 back to New York." The two started for the parking lot, Rob slowing his normal energetic stride because of George's damaged leg. "What happened to you?" he asked as George hobbled along beside.

"Ah," the injured man growled, drawing the word out and waving his hand dismissively. "I'm not twenty anymore. I was chasing a perp and took a bad step. Twisted the shit out of my knee. They got me on desk duty. I begged them to let me come pick you up just to get out from behind that damned desk."

Rob grinned and nodded in silent understanding because no marshal worth his salt wanted to be stuck behind a desk. The two men made their way to the parking garage with George leading the way. They took the elevator, out of deference to George's leg, and when the cab's doors opened, Rob spotted their car immediately. Nothing said United States Government Fleet like a white Chevy Impala with plastic wheel covers.

"You know where you're going?" George asked as he limped toward the car.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Can you drive? It hurts my damned knee," the hobbled man said, patting his leg.

"Sure."

After unlocking the car, George tossed Rob the keys. Rob slid behind the wheel as the other man grunted and groaned his way into the front seat, using his hands to help get his damaged leg inside, before shutting the door. Rob didn't say anything, but he suspected that if the fat bastard would drop fifty pounds, he wouldn't have to worry about blowing out his knee.

"How do I get out of here?"

George glanced at the driver, his brow furrowing. "I thought you knew where you were going."

"I do. The Chatterham on Hickam, but I don't know the best way to get there."

George grinned. "Oh, right. Sorry. Yeah, out of the garage and follow the signs to Lincoln. Make a right, and then east on the 105. I'll direct you."

Rob followed George's directions to get out of the airport and onto Interstate 105 heading east. "How'd you get sucked into this milk run?" George asked. "We're going to stay on the 105 until we reach the 605. That's about twenty miles."

Rob shrugged as he settled into the cruise. "Just lucky I guess. What's the story on this chick?"

"You don't know?"

Rob shook his head. "No, not really. I know she's supposed to testify in New York against Han Kwang-hoon. She's his wife or something. Has the same family name anyway."

George nodded. "Yeah, that's about all I know too. If that's the case, what the fuck is she doing way out in here in California?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

"This Han guy... he bad news?"

"Korean mob. Runs protection in Queens, guns, drugs, prostitution, you name it. Everyone knows he's guilty as shit, but legally, he's squeaky clean. Took over for his father a couple of years back. Word is the old man is dying. The U.S. Attorney's been trying to get something on them for years. Got close a couple of times, but the witness either recanted or disappeared."

George nodded slowly. "I think I'd rather have the Korean mob than the Mexicans we've got out here. The fucking spics, they'd as soon gut you as spit on you."

Rob glanced at his passenger. "Bad?"

"The worst. At least the mob has a sense of honor... the Italian do anyway." Rob glanced at him again, and he guessed George saw his disbelief that a cop would say that. The older man grinned and shrugged. "So I heard."

"You heard wrong. Any group that puts drugs and guns on the street, and extorts money from honest people just trying to earn a living, gets no respect from me. Irish, Italian, Korean, we've got them all in New York, and they're all nothing but a bunch of thugs. I hope this Han chick helps us put a boot on their neck."

George grunted. Rob guessed it was the same everywhere. A thug was a thug, and every cop thought their thugs were the worst. By unspoken agreement, they changed the subject and talked about other things.

"What time did you leave New York?" George asked as they motored toward the Chatterham. "Pretty damned early in the morning for you have flown fly all the way from New York."

Rob grunted. "Flight left at six-thirty, three-thirty your time. If we make the return flight, we'll arrive back in Newark about nine, Eastern."

"Long fucking day," George grumbled. "Exit here," he continued, pointing to a sign.

"Yeah," Rob agreed as he began working his way into the right lane.

With George directing, Rob was soon pulling the car into the parking garage of the hotel. "Mind if I wait down here? My knee is fucking killing me. Maybe I should have stayed behind the desk."

Rob chuckled as he opened his door. "Sure. No problem."

He rode the elevator to the fourth floor and rapped lightly on room 411.

"Yes?" a voice asked from behind the closed door.

"Rob Cogburn, U.S. Marshal Service. I'm here to accept custody of Han Bo-bae."

There was a lengthy pause and he wondered what was going on in there. "Let me see the badge," the muffled voice demanded.

He pulled his badge from his belt and held it up to the peep. A moment later there were the thumps and scrapes of the locks being released. The door swung open.

"What are you doing here?" the blonde female marshal asked as she stepped back. "They told us there'd been a change in plan and you wouldn't be here until this evening."

He shrugged as he stepped into the room. The second female marshal, a brunette, was standing near the bedroom door. Her weapon was holstered, but her hand was resting on the butt and the stay was unsnapped. Han was probably in the bedroom and out of sight for her protection.

"What can I say? It's a wonder the Travel Office can even find their way to the building in the morning."

"Ain't that the truth," Blondie said.

He pulled out the transfer order and handed it to the deputy. She looked it over quickly and nodded. The other deputy relaxed and removed her hand from her weapon.

"Ms. Han, your ride is here," the marshal by the door said into the bedroom.

"About fucking time!" an out of sight voice sneered.

The blonde signed the paperwork, kept her copy, and handed his copy back to him as a woman about Rob's age appeared from the bedroom.

Han Bo-bae was dressed all in white that contrasted perfectly with her flesh. Her tight pants sported four buttons on the hip, while her snug lacy top plunged deeply between her full breasts. Her pants stopped just above her calves and the top ended halfway between her breasts and her bellybutton with little banglely balls hanging from the bottom to draw the eye to her firm, flat stomach. Tall white pumps completed her look. Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail that was infused with a healthy splash of celery green, while a fringe at the front framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, and her dark eyes and small nose made her look like a doll. She had larger breasts than most Korean woman, was sexy as hell and knew it, but ran a little to the slutty side for his taste. The haughty sneer she wore didn't help her appeal any. Marshals were used to sizing people up in an instant, and Rob's instincts said she was probably a grade A large, USDA approved, bitch.

"Enjoy your flight, Ms. Han," Blondie said, though her tone and the hardness of her face made it clear she didn't mean a word of it.

"Fuck you, bitch," Han sneered.

He glanced at the second marshal and her face was just as hard. The marshals were professionals, but he could tell they couldn't stand Han, and she felt the same way about them.

"This way, Ms. Han," he said, taking her by the arm to escort her out.

She jerked her arm away. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

So that's how it's going to be

, he thought to himself. He took her arm in a firmer grip. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice," he growled, holding her gaze, his tone as hard and cold as frozen diamonds. She tried to jerk away again, but he tightened his grip.

"I'm going to report you to your supervisor!" she snarled.

"Fine. He'll tell you I'm following procedure. Now let's go."

He began dragging her toward the door, the two female marshals looking at each other and smiling because he was getting a taste of what they'd had to put up with for the past two days.

"You're hurting me!"

He stopped at the door and relaxed his grip slightly. "My job is to get you safely back to New York and that's what I'm going to do. The pleasantness of your trip is entirely up to you. Understand?" he rumbled as he looked down at her.

She glared at her. "I'll have your fucking badge for this!"

"You can take it up with the U.S. Attorney... in New York."

She tried to jerk away again. He pivoted with her and in less than a second he had her face first against the door as he jerked her arms behind her back. "What are you doing?" she cried as he held her in place.

"Cuffing you," he said as he slipped the first loop of the disposable cuffs over her wrist and tightened it down with a zipping sound. The cuffs were little more than extra wide, specialty, zip-ties.

"What? Why? You can't do that!"

"I can, and I am," he said as he repeated the process with the second loop. "You don't want to cooperate, that's up to you."

He opened the door, his hand on her arm. The other two marshals were enjoying this a little too much. He wanted to smile himself, but he kept his hard ass marshal look firmly in place. Sometimes people were their own worst enemy. He led her down the hall to the elevators, the other two marshals flanking them to provide backup.

"Wait," Han began. "Wait. I'm sorry. You don't need the cuffs. Please."

The four stepped into the elevator and Blondie pushed the button for the garage. "You sure?" he asked, his voice still firm and without sympathy.

"Yes! I'm sorry."

He turned her back to him, pulled his knife and flicked it open with his thumb, before cutting off the bright yellow plastic manacles. "If I have to put them on again, they stay on until we reach New York, understand?" he said as he pulled her bindings away, stored his knife, and dropped the now useless cuffs into his pocket.

"Thank you," she said, rubbing her wrists. He hadn't pulled the cuffs that tight. If she didn't like them loose, she really wouldn't have liked them tight.

He tossed the cuffs in a trash can as they stepped off the elevator. They walked to the Impala, the marshals alert for anything that looked wrong or out of place. George was still sitting in the passenger seat, clearly unconcerned, and nobody saw anything that spooked them. As the other two marshals kept watch, Rob opened the rear door of the Chevy and guided Han inside, protecting her head with his hand as she sat down. The slamming of the car's door boomed and echoed in the garage.

"Good luck," the brunette said softly. "You're going to need it."

He did smile this time. "I think I've got her number."

The blonde nodded. "I hope so. If Kennedy hadn't been there as a witness, I swear, I'd have shot her ass."

He barked out a laugh. "Well, I've taken her off your hands."

"Thank God," Kennedy said. "I need a drink."

He flopped into the car and started it, glancing at the rearview mirror. Han was sitting, her posture stiff and combative, and her eyes and face hard as she glared at his reflection. "Relax," Rob said. "We're going to the airport. Our flight leaves at 12:45 and you'll--"

"12:45! That's two hours from now!"

"Sorry, but United Airlines doesn't run service to suit the whims of Han Bo-bae. So just sit back, shut up, and let me do my job."

"You're such an asshole," she muttered, and he had no doubt she intended for him to hear her comment.

"You need to make a left here," George said, pointing when they were well away from the hotel.

"That's not the way we came."

"I know. While you were up there, I got a call. There's been a change of plans."

"What change?"

"There's been a death threat against her. They want us to go to John Wayne where there'll be a chartered plane waiting."

"John Wayne? That's an airport?"

"Yeah. It's south of here, in Irvine."

Something didn't feel right to Rob about the sudden change in plans. Han wasn't a felon or violent, so she should fly commercial. Unless someone was threatening to shoot the airliner down, not an easy thing to do, there was no reason to change plans now.

"Where'd that come from?" Rob asked.

"Came straight down from the top."

"Yeah, but who? Who ordered the change?"

"I don't know. It came from New York."

They rolled to a stop at a light and Rob pulled his phone out. "Let me see if I can find out what's going--"

George moved in a way that started alarm bells ringing in the younger man's head. George's seatbelt was off and as his weapon appeared, all the pieces fell into place in an instant. George wasn't a marshal, and he'd wanted Rob to drive because he didn't know where Han was being kept. That was the reason the two marshals guarding Han weren't expecting him. He'd been set up.

Rob floored the car to rear end the vehicle in front of them. They didn't hit the car hard enough to deploy the airbags, but without his seatbelt on, George was tossed forward into the dash. Rob grabbed the gun and tried to twist it from the gunman's grasp, but he was severely disadvantaged because the steering wheel and seatbelt greatly restricted his ability to move.

The killer's knee was obviously fine because he lunged at Rob without a hint of pain, trying to twist the weapon into Rob's chest. The gun roared, deafening in the cabin of the car, and the instrument cluster shattered. Rob strained with everything he had as the two men wrestled over the weapon, desperately trying to turn the pistol away from him. George suddenly relaxed when he realized he couldn't overpower the heavily muscled marshal, but as he tried to pull the weapon back, Rob took the opportunity to bang George's wrists on the steering wheel. The gun bellowed with the impact. Rob slammed the killer's wrist into the wheel again, causing the hand to spasm open, and the gun fell from his grip as George howled with pain.

Rob was still at a disadvantage, but not as much as before. A blow he didn't even see coming hit him in the forehead, rocking his head back and bouncing it off the headrest before a thick, meaty hand closed around his throat. He fired his right elbow out and back, trying to gain some space, and he felt it connect with something hard yet yielding. George's hand fell away as the man reared back, his nose and lips bleeding profusely. Rob unclipped the seatbelt holding him tightly against the seatback to give him some room to move. Struggling out of the entangling strap, he lunged at the thug, but the steering wheel pinned his hip and the console between the seats was in the way. Holding George's right arm with his left hand, Rob threw one, two, three hard open-handed rights into George's already ruined face. Rob knew with George already reeling, if he could get out from under the fucking steering wheel, he knew he could finish him!

George slumped sideways against the door, using it as a brace jack Rob's head back with his hand under the marshal's chin. Rob tried to tear his hand away, but he didn't have the leverage. In desperation Rob drove his elbow down into George's stomach, except he missed and hit the thug right in the balls. George screamed in agony as his hands fell from Rob's chin. With George temporarily incapacitated, Rob escaped the steering wheel, scrambled over the console, and began pummeling his foe with one, two, three, and then four hard strikes to his face.

George was fading. The thug got a shot into Rob's ribs, but his punch was weak and ineffective. Rob hit him twice more, driving the meaty part of his hand into George's face as hard as he could before the thug was still. It was over. He glanced into the backseat as he panted. Han was staring at the two men in horror but seemed unharmed, and he wondered why she hadn't run. Probably because the fight had lasted only seconds. It had only felt like hours.

He opened the passenger door and shoved George out onto the ground, slamming the door shut behind him. He squeezed back under the steering wheel before he noticed the car had died during their struggle. The driver of the car they'd rear ended was standing beside his car, staring at them in slack jawed wonder, and people were beginning to point and take pictures with their cell phones. He tried to start the car, but when he twisted the key nothing happened. Not even a grunt. He tried again as he glanced around. One of the bullets had gone through the steering column. He quickly checked his legs to make sure he hadn't been hit. He felt no pain, and his hands didn't come back bloody, but the car was fucked. Now that the car wouldn't move, he worried that George had friends on the way.